by Valentina Cano


You've acquired a sticky lacquer

to your skin

that traps dust and panicked flies

as they roam by.

I don't know if it's a new thing,

an appendage that has

overgrown its sheath,

or if it was always there

and I was too convoluted

like oily water to see it.

When I touch you,

my fingers jerk back

ragged, ripped like torn notebook paper,

bleeding in silence.

You carry my skin on

your flytrap covering.

You carry it as you shower

and tie your shoes,

always swirling around you,

trying to catch your

misguided attention.

One day you'll glance

down at the flap of suffocating skin

and realize I've probably

bled to death.



Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler,Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Magnolia's Press, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals, and will appear in the upcoming editions A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, Super Poetry Highway and Perhaps I’m Wrong About the World. You can find her here:


This poem originally appeared in Issue 1.